18 Candles
by scribbled.ink
Summary: "What's your name?" "Robin." Bang. In those moments, he knew that he had lost. Everything fell over in the end; it always did. "Happy birthday, Richard." Two-shot. Shameless Robin torture.
1. Happy Brithday to Me

They were all found shirtless and bare-foot, with a three inch slit in their throats. Three bullets were found, two in each shoulder, and one about the naval. Both ankles were broken, and eight ribs were fractured. Every boy found had a black cloth over their eyes, with the words, _Mincinos _written in white.

Five weeks ago, Scarecrow broke out of Arkham, and starting popping up in Nottingham, England. Then, string of kidnappings started in the same area. Nine black haired boys, all 5"10 and ranging in age from 16-24, were abducted. Then, 96 hours later, they were each found in alley ways, dead.

Most recently, a seventeen year old boy was reported missing after he didn't show up for school Thursday. Like the rest, he had black hair, and fit the height description. His name was Matthew Wey.

The thing was, though, none of them had traces of fear gas.

I was working on it now. There were 64 hours left until he was found.

Suddenly, the power went out. I pressed a reboot button, and nothing happened. Cursing silently, I stood to find the source, however, the screen lit up again.

It was black, and a single file appeared, marked with a silver 'S'.

Anger surged through me, and, after a moment's hesitation I regained my posture.

Then I sat back down, and clicked on it.

* * *

><p>The video was shot from a camera in the corner of a small room. There were no windows, but a metal door could be seen. I mumbled to myself, and noted that it was most likely a cell. What caught my attention however, were the quiet sobs coming from a figure- a teenager- in the center. He was skinny and pale, with black hair. At his position, I raised an eyebrow- he wasn't bound to any chains, he simply sat there, on the gray cement ground. It was Matthew, most likely; but were was Scarecrow?<p>

A few seconds passed before the door clicked, and immediately the boy went rigid. He was scared.

Metal shoes echoed against the ground as a man walked in. He was tall, and clad in orange and black. Tensing in my seat, I growled. He walked over to the boy, and looked towards the camera, before smoothly, he whispered. His voice dripping with a terrifying calmness.

"Batman." A simple one word greeting. I glared at the screen, but didn't say anything; I didn't know if he had a visual on me or not.

Deathstroke then crouched, getting close to the boy, before he asked slowly,

"What is your name?"

The boy didn't answer. Deathstroke turned slightly, as if about to leave, before spinning and backhanding the boy. He flew backwards, the sound of his glove against skin being the only sound in the room. With such impact, the boy's head snapped up, and he fell on his back, face towards the camera. His shagged black hair swept away from his face, and his face was in front of me, clear as day.

I gasped.

Then everything fell.

* * *

><p>I felt myself choking on tears, and I pulled back the cowl. Batman didn't cry. Bruce Wayne did.<p>

Bruce Wayne, the father of Dick Grayson. Father of a boy would have the biggest eighteenth birthday party in history. Father to a world-class acrobat who would be already be accepted into outstanding colleges. Father to a boy who would have gotten to see his team become the most noble heroes. Father to a boy who had lost so much, and would have lost even more. Father to a boy who had been an outcast, but would have been honored. Father to a boy who was at the breaking point, but would have risen back up. Father to a boy who would have saved the world. Father to a boy who had inspired millions, and would have inspired millions more.

But he never did.

Dick was kidnapped 4 years ago, December 1, 2012. He was out with Roy when the abduction happened.

He was pronounced dead April 1, 2014. It was ironic- the League announcing his death the same day as his parents'.

Today was December 1, 2016. His 18th birthday.

He would have been 18 today. He would have been a legal adult. He was going to go to Europe, with Wally and Roy; they had it planned for years. It was all he had wanted.

Eventually, the League gave up. And soon after, so did the team. I wanted to say that I never stopped searching, never stopped looking- but that would be a lie. Months of heartache and sleepless nights, my every waking moment filled with dread and guilt, it all built up. Inside was an growing tower of blocks. Adding up, one by one, becoming weak and unstable; they stayed there inside me. Every fell down in the end, it always did.

Eventually I gave up, too.

Eventually everyone stopped looking,

for Poor.

Lost.

Dead.

Dick Grayson.

I shut my eyes, gripping the handles of my chair chair tightly.

* * *

><p>Dick's face was bruised badly; his lips blood red. A cut ran from his forehead, cross his eyebrow, to his cheekbone, where the blood had changed a rusty brown. His vest had been removed, and the bones on his back stuck out disgustingly- he had been starved. I clenched my jaw. He was still alive, and wasn't too injured. He could be saved. Despite his dangerously skinny frame, it was still noticeable that he wasn't fourteen anymore. No; he was older. This was footage of right now. This was happening right now. He was still alive. Dick Grayson was still alive.<p>

I swallowed.

"Dick..." The words were lost at my lips as my com. unit buzzed slightly in my ear. I ignored it. League business could wait.

It buzzed again. I ignored it.

Although his mask was gone, the room was too dull, and Dick was too far away for his eyes to be seen properly, but I knew what they would have looked like if I could've seen them. They would be begging me. They would be pleading for me to put my cowl back on, rush out there, an save him. Because even though Dick was as strong kid, he was still a little scared eight boy on the inside, screaming in the middle of the night for his dead parents. Screaming for them to save him.

Deathstroke bent over, and pulled Dick up by his hair till he was hovering, feet hanging limp just inches above the ground. Again, he asked, voice deathly calm,

"What's your name?"

"Robin."

He let Dick go, and he fell to the ground. I inwardly winced.

A few seconds passed, before Deathstroke reached behind him, pulling a gun out of his belt. Then, he stood there, waiting. Dick must've noticed this, so he leaned on his elbow. Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, and stared at Slade. At least, I assumed he was looking at Slade, considering his head was turned away from me.

"What's your name?"

"Robin."

He pointed the gun.

Bang.

The bullet cut through Dick's shoulder, and I heard a sharp gasp, before he double over, falling to his side once again. Deathstroke didn't wait for him to recover this time.

"What's your name?"

"Robin."

Bang.

The bullet cut through the other shoulder. This time, Dick gasped a little louder, and heaved.

"What's your name?"

"Robin."

I closed my eyes this time, looking away from the screen.

The third shot rang through the screen, and I heard Dick fall on his back. I opened my eyes.

He was shot just above the naval. At this, I scowled. Three shots, each in the same exact spots as the other nine victims.

Black hair, 5"10, sixteen to twenty four years old, shirtless and dead. Found in alley. Four days after abduction.

There was a connection.

Dick- black hair, 5"10 (assuming), 18, shirtless, four years.

What was the connection?

* * *

><p>"What's your name?"<p>

"Robin."

The sound of two cracked ribs.

I scowled, there was a connection.

"What's your name?"

"Robin."

Two more cracked ribs.

Dick vomited.

Think, Bruce. There's a connection.

"What's your name?"

"R-robin."

Dick screamed.

No. Think. What?

"What's your name?"

I placed my hands on my head.

"R-robin."

Another scream.

My com. unit buzzed again.

No, not now. Not now. Please, think.

"What's your name?"

"R-r-rob-bin."

Nothing happened.

I looked up. Dick layed there, bloody and broken, at Deathstroke's feet. Then, he pulled out a knife, and bent down. He balanced on one knee, and let the knife fall on the hard floor. He placed one fist on Dick's chest.

A scream erupted throughout the cell.

Slowly, he whispered, "What's your name?"

"R-robin."

I waited, and Deathstroke reached around his head, unclasping his mask and letting it clatter to the ground. His grey hair falling in his face.

"Liar." My eyes widened.

The connection.

_Mincinos_. Liar. It was Romanian for liar.

Scarecrow had never kidnapped those boys.

It was Deathstroke. Each one was a note, a calling card, to me. He was isolating Robin, and killed off each boy that wasn't him. Nine boys, nine years. Dick had been Robin for nine years. Four days, four years, four months. Four months after his parent's death, August 1st, was the day he became Robin.

All of it, the hair, the height, the age- all of it- were clues. I was supposed to find him. I should have seen it. I could has saved him. Except, I didn't. Now, Dick was going to die. He was going to die. This wasn't torture, this wasn't meant to make him suffer through the agony. This was all a tribute, a final goodbye. Deathstroke was honoring Robin, and showing how brave he was. Deathstroke although an enemy, had always been impressed by Robin. He had wanted Robin to be his, and his alone. Up there in his sick, twisted mind, he wanted Robin to be his. He wanted to show off his little birdy to the world. He wanted everyone to know that he had won, and I had lost. He got what he wanted, and now, Robin was going to die.

Deathstroke picked him up, and put him in a sitting position with his feet out straight. He, wrapped one arm around Robin's torso, before whispering, "Say hi to Daddy." Dick's head snapped up, and he noticed the camera. He didn't say anything. He already knew what was going to happen. In that moment, Dick knew that he had lost. I hadn't saved him. He was alone. Slowly, Deathstroke picked up the knife, placing it to Robin's throat.

"What's your name?"

I waited for the answer, for the 'Robin,' and for Deathstroke to slit his throat, just like the rest. Except, that wasn't what he said. The world went silent for a few moments, before, quietly, he rasped out,

"R-r-ichar-ard Gray-ayson."

Then, Slade Wilson smiled. He let the knife fall, and placed Robin back on the ground. He stood, and turned around, walking out. "Happy Birthday, Richard."

* * *

><p>The screen went black, and I blinked. No. No. No, what? What about Dick? Suddenly, My com. unit buzzed again, and I growled.<p>

"Clark. Not. Now."

"Bruce, we saw the video. It streamed in the watchtower."

"And?"

"Well- I know this is hard, but-"

"Shut up. You don't get a say in this. You don't get to suddenly be there! You weren't. You gave up."

"So did you."

I paused. "Not now."

"Bruce,"

"Shut up! Dick is out there! He is bleeding to death and I need to find him."

"Maybe I could help-"

"No."

I shut off the signal, and opened a map of Earth. I put in the locations of where each boy was found, and zoomed in. Red dots blinked, forming a circle. My eyes widened. each one had a radius of five miles away from a single village- Gotham, Nottinghamshire.

"Dick, don't worry."

* * *

><p>It had taken me eighty seven minutes before I found him.<p>

I kicked down the down to the basement, and ran down the stairs. At most, twenty different metal doors greeted me on both sides of a hallway, and each one required a different lock. This would take too long.

"Dick!"

No answer.

"Dick!"

None.

I went through each room, only to come up empty.

Halfway through, I came to a door and put in the electronic shifting key. The door moved slightly- it wasn't locked.

I slammed the door open.

There, in the center of the room, was a boy. 5"10, shirtless, and bruised. Three bullet holes were found, two in each shoulder, an one above the naval. Eight ribs stuck out at odd angles, broken. His ankles were both dislocated and twisted around in awkward positions. Across his face, was a black cloth, with the words _Mincinos_ written in white.

It was the dead body of Matthew Wey. His throat was slit, and fresh blood poured out.

There, in the corner, was none other than an 18 year old Dick Grayson, with a bloody knife in his hands.

"Dick," I choked, and pulled back my cowl. "Dickie, I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry." He looked up at me, and I rushed over, embracing the lost boy. He hugged me back, sobbing.

"I killed him."

"It's okay."

"I killed him."

"Dick-"

"He's dead. They're all dead. I killed them all. I killed them and I hurt them, I did. I did it and it's all my fault. I did all of this, everything. I tried, I wanted to stop, but I didn't. He's dead. He's dead, he's dead, oh God, he's dead."

"Dick, calm down. It's going to be okay."

He shook his head, and let go of me. Backing away, he stared at the ground, trying to find a way out. "No. No, no, no. No. Everything's wrong, it's all wrong. It's all wrong, Bruce."

"Dick, what do you mean?" He gripped the knife tightly, and scooted backwards on his elbows -considering his broken ankles- up to the open door. Staring at me blankly, he put out a hand, motioning me to stop. In that second, I finally got a good look at his eyes. They weren't they bright blue eyes of a wide-eyed and curious boy. They were the eyes of a man who was dead inside. Someone who had surrendered in battle, and lost the entire war.

"I killed them, because I lost. I lost. I gave in. I let myself fall. You're not the father of a hero. You're the father of a failure."

I took a step, and he flinched, so I froze. "Dick, don't do anything. Put down the knife, it's okay. Things are okay." He laughed dryly, and tossed the knife towards me.

"Things won't ever be okay, Bruce."

I opened my mouth, to speak, but then closed it.

"Do you know what it was like? I wasn't tortured, or treated horribly. I didn't spend my days trapped in a cell chained to the wall. I had a room, a nice room. I was aloud to walked around and I was given food. Slade was there. He made sure I didn't escape, and sure, he as a little harsh, but do you want to know something?" Dick paused. "He was nice. He cared, Bruce. He cared. He trained me, and made me better. He made me stronger. He made me dangerous, but that was okay- shooting a few mannequins in the head wasn't the same as real people, right?" By now, he was trembling, in fear or shock, I didn't know. "Then, he asked me if I wanted to see you again. It had been four years, Bruce. Four freaking years knowing that _you _gave up on _me_. But still, I told him yes. I said yes because he could never break me and turn me into what he was. Then he told me to stab those boys, and I could go. So I did. I killed them all, for you, Bruce."

He looked at me, dead in the eyes, with his out grown hair dangling in his face, and sighed, "I did all of it for you."

It was then I realized- he wasn't cracked; he was shattered. His life had been destroyed and could never be rebuilt. Maybe Dick was home, and maybe he was alive; but in the end, I had lost.

"Happy Birthday to Me."

.

.

.

Fin.

* * *

><p>This turned out longer than I was expecting, and went in a completely different direction. Oh well.<p> 


	2. Best Wishes, Mr Grayson

It was Dick Grayson's 18th birthday.

Wally hated it.

Four years, four freaking years, and no word. Yeah, so he had given up the search, but still, he could at least wish for some hope. In the back of his mind, a young sixteen year-old Kid Flash sat, yelling at his uncle to continue the search, that Dick Grayson was still alive. That part of him still remained, even if he ignored it. Part of him still wanted the thirteen year old ninja to kick his butt in video games, and prank call Pizza Hut every Friday night. Part of him still wanted the little ten year old to hide Wally in his room when his dad got to rough and mean. Part of him still wanted his best friend to be there.

Part of him still believed his brother was alive.

Of course, though, he was twenty, and those parts of him were just figments of his imagination, s=distracting him from reality.

Currently, it was noon-ish, and thankfully, Artemis had let him sleep in, figuring he probably needed it. Then, she started to make him twenty two chocolate chip pancakes. Yeah, she was amazing like that.

When Dick was pronounced dead, she made sure he didn't get depressed. Wally wasn't good with bad news, despite his uplifting and witty portrayal, and easily fell into the dark and sickening depression that constantly loomed over heroes. Around Wally's 18th birthday, he had asked Artemis to go to the circus. It was then she realized he had moved on. Wally always hated the circus, even when Dick was still around. Artemis had been scared by his moving-on at first, but soon followed in forgetting.

Now, four years after his abduction, it was the only thing they could think about.

After assuring Artemis that he would be okay, Wally had gone out to Star City to see Roy.

In Central, it snowed clear from October to March. In Star, it only began snowing in December, so the light blanket felt unfamiliar to the speedster when he first sped down the streets.

The last time Wally and Roy had spoken was July. After it happened, the two quickly fell apart, letting their friendship fall into the ground with the coffin that was Dick Grayson's. They never talked anymore. What was there to talk about? Every time they saw each other, the third member of the trio came to mind, and ruined everything.

Soon, Wally stood at the door that belonged to none other than Roy Harper. He swallowed, a knocked.

* * *

><p>Dick hadn't realized how much pain he was in, until now. He had attempted to sit up, but when he felt a firm hand push him back onto the stretcher, he cried out in pain. His insides hurt whenever he took a breath, and his head felt like a million pounds had been on top of his skull. His legs wouldn't move, which annoyed him. He could will them to move, he could urge them, but they wouldn't go.<p>

It was like walking over the edge of a cliff. He _knew_ what was happening, but he couldn't bring himself to turn around or stop, which, by the way, he wanted to turn around and stop.

The white-honestly, white?- of the sheets were on were smeared red with dry blood, and he could feel the thick goo along his shoulder's and arms, all around his neck. It disgusted him. Then, there was the fact that he had eight broken ribs, and three gaping bullet wounds that hadn't been treated in what had been a total of 94 minutes now. The severity of the situation hadn't hit him until now, and when it did, he was mostly confused. He was feeling fine... mostly. On a scale of 1 to 10, he would rate it an eight; he had been through worse.

Around him was chaos. Sirens blared and machines that were being moved along with him beeped constantly. A commotion had started when he first entered where- wait, where was he again?- ever he was, and people ran around uncontrollably yelling and shouting. Multiple times had someone tried to run up and hug him, only to be pushed away by whoever was next to him. Dick was mask-less, and sadly, the lights on the ceiling where just plain annoying. Blinding him, they made everyone around him unclear and unfamiliar.

Dick assumed he was in some sort of hospital, and was being rushed to who-knows-where for surgery. Suddenly, the memory of his short time in the cell cam to mind, and he realized he still had three bullets inside him. It didn't make sense though, shouldn't he have been, oh I don't know, unconscious? Normally, when he was hurt on a mission, he was taken to Leslie Thompkins, who had been the Bat-family doctor for quite some time now. He tensed his arm, and felt something, an IV, maybe, and came to the conclusion that he was in fact in a hospital of sorts.

Then again, what hospital had brightly colored dressed people? And what doctor would call him "Robin," instead of Dick Grayson? So, again, he assumed things.

This was the Watchtower, these people were the Justice League, and he was being taken to the infirmary. For surgery. With needles. He really hated needles.

Again, he tried to sit up, and like before he was gently pushed back down, searing his body with intense pain. Someone stuck something in his arm, a needle maybe, and it hurt like crap. He contorted his face, and when even that simple movement became uncomfortable under the mask over his mouth, he decided that perhaps relaxing a bit was okay. The people beside him were a blur of colors, and he forgot who they were exactly; they seemed trusting, though.

Yeah, they seemed like they had this under control. Besides, sleep sounded really nice right then.

* * *

><p>Wally sighed. He had knocked, like, twenty times. Granted, he was a speedster, and it had only been thirty seconds, but still! Where was Roy? Honestly, there wasn't anywhere he needed to be- he was probably sitting on his musty old couch, moping about and getting drunk. Looking down at his watch, he furrowed his eyebrows. Maybe he wasn't home.<p>

Maybe he should leave, after all, Artemis did have like, twenty pancakes at home, just waiting to be eaten. Wally turned slightly, readying to walk away, when he decided against it. Maybe Roy was home.

Wally sighed again. Roy was his friend, he should at least check on him. The two used to be best friends, heck, brothers! Now, they hardly even talked, save a few words shared on a mission. Unsteadily, turned the handle on the door, expecting it to hold firm and be locked. He was surprised when it didn't. Roy always locked his door, especially since moving to a place as bad this. Raising an eyebrow, he pushed the door open a little farther, and walked in. Okay, so maybe he was home.

After walking past the trashed living room (and moving quite a few beer cans out of the way) he came to the kitchen.

And there, on the old chipped tile, was one other than Roy Harper, hot-headed-red-haired-archer, lying on a pile of dish towels. The place smelled of spoiled milk and alcohol, and dirty plates and bowls lined the counter tops. Roy layed there, seemingly content, and staring at the ceiling. He didn't even move when Wally had walked in. At this Wally raised an eyebrow, Roy had always been good at detecting when people were around him.

"Roy," Wally said, raking his fingers through his red hair.

Roy didn't answer.

"Roy," he said again. "Roy, I know you know I'm here." After a brief moment of silence, the older made an inhuman noise in response. "Roy." Again all Wally got was a groan. "Could you at least say something audible?" He asked, irritated.

Roy hesitated for a moment. "No," he said, voice cracking.

Wally's stomach growled, and he scrunched his nose when the smell of spoiled milk and alcohol became very strong. "You're drunk," he stated.

"Uh, uh."

"Dammit, Roy! What the hell happened to you? You're a freaking alcoholic!"

Roy frowned. "Just because I drank a little last night doesn't qualify me as an alcoholic. And, clearly, I'm not drunk anymore. It's called a hangover, and you've had quite a few in your days, if I remember." Roy sat up stood, grimacing at the sudden movement, and stood up. He used his feet to bounce himself up, and he sway for a few seconds before settling. Roy was tall, always had been, so naturally, people had to look up at him, and it made him pretty intimidating. However, at that moment, when he was stumbling over his own feet, he look just plain stupid. "Oh, really, you have no right to talk, Wally. You're no better than me," his words were pronounced better than Wally had imagined, and they weren't as slurred. Quite obviously, though, Roy was trying really hard to be sober.

"No right? I'm not the one wasting my life away with beer cans, Roy." By now, Wally was quite annoyed, and decided he should have left the door when he could. This was how all their talks ended up now. That was all they did anymore- him and Roy. They fought, they fought, and they fought. Even if it was over nothing, they still fought.

"At least I didn't run away from my life! I'm not the one who hung up the cape. That was all you," Roy's voice cracked, and he paused in between words.

"I doubt you can fight anymore, anyway. You couldn't even walk two feet without tripping over air. What happened to you? You used to be one of the best fighters I knew, and now look at you. Your twenty three and your going to die by twenty five if you don't get your act together! Why do you think Jade left? Huh? Why do you think your wife took your daughter and walked out on you? Because you've thrown your life out the window. You gave up your family for this," Wally gestured around the room "and look where that got you!"

"You don't understand what I've been through! The shit I've dealt with!"

"I knew Dick, too! Don't think you're the only who's hurting!" Wally's fingers curled in on themselves, and formed tight fists. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"Dammit Wally, at least he still means something to me!"

"And you think he doesn't to me? He was my best friend. But I moved on. I didn't waste my life drinking, trying to hide the pain. I did something with myself, and I-" Wally was cut off sharply, with Roy taking a large step towards him, shouting loudly.

"I'm healing, Wally!" By now, they were both screaming. There was no denying it. If Roy had neighbors, they'd have several complaints no doubt.

"Healing? You're healing? Roy, this isn't healing; this is being a coward. It's been four years! Move on!" Wally paused. "What would Dick think about this?" Wally hadn't even attempted to stop the words as they left his mouth, and as soon as he finished saying it, he froze. Dick was still a touchy subject, but he refused to take back what he said. Roy needed to hear the truth.

"Get out." Roy's voice had, suddenly, dropped dangerously low.

"Roy,"

"Get out!"

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, Dick had worked off the painkillers as soon as he was put in a bed. Which, in turn, meant a very much awake, and very much aggrieved Dick Grayson.<p>

At one point, Dinah Lance had brought in some food, which his stomach did not agree with.

His room in the Watchtower (which, yes, it was in fact the Watchtower) was very dull, compared to his room in Deathstroke's hideout. His bed sheets were a light brown, along with his blanket, and his pillows weren't the most comfortable. However, he was thankful for them. When he first woke up, he had thrown the pillow across the room, and couldn't lay back down, since he couldn't breath. The walls were a dark grey, and suffocated him from all corners. However, he couldn't complain about the bland space- it was still far better than the sterile white in hospitals.

The surgery had been short- maybe around one or two hours, he didn't really know, after all he had been unconscious for most of it. It was an hour after that his lunch came, and now, he was just sitting here.

Thankfully, there as a digital clock above the door that Barry Allen had brought in from Central City, which read 3:20 PM. At this, Dick's eyes widened a bit. Okay, so, six hours ago was when Deathstroke broadcast the video to Bruce ,four hours ago was when Matthew Wey died, and Bruce found him. Three and half hours ago was when he was brought to the Watchtower, two hours ago was when he came out of surgery, and an hour ago was when Dinah came in. It was all so undeniably stressing, even for a hero.

No one had come since Dinah, and it kind of annoyed him. Honestly, he had just been found after four years, and no one, not even Bruce, came to visit him. Now, he certainly wasn't asking for the attention, but it would have been nice to at least know someone cared. Besides, he knew what they were doing anyway.

They were judging him.

Somewhere in the Watchtower, Bats had gathered a heap of Leaguers in some room, to talk about him. Yeah, he was back, so yay on that note, but there were a few major things that had no point in being ignore.

For starters, he had tortured and murdered ten men.

He could have been legally insane for all they knew, and what if he took a knife to one of them?

Maybe Deathstroke had let him go on purpose, to get inside of the League and take them down.

The list went on, but, honestly, he didn't care. He wasn't bothered if he was going to be in prison the rest of his life- it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore. He knew very well he had screwed things up- he knew that from the first victim he killed. But, he was doing it so he could go home; so that justified his actions, right?

Wrong.

Why were they discussing this behind his back, anyway? Dick knew very well what he had done, and he had every right to be there and hear what they said. He deserved, and wanted, to know that they thought of him now.

"I bet they hate me," he stated blankly, to the world. The words were coarse, and whispered. He looked down at the bed as he said it, playing with the sheets between his fingers.

Sadly, the world didn't answer him back.

A few minutes later, Clark Kent walked in. Not Superman, but Clark Kent. He had taken off his costume (or maybe he hadn't been wearing it in the first place- he didn't know.)

He looked tired, and sad. Even though it had been quite some time, Dick could still read the older man's face like a book. Clark was nervous, and knew something, he knew something about him. Clark was worried; he was scared. Dick sighed, so they had talked about him. Now, Clark was here to tell he would be in prison the rest of his life.

Trying his best to will the ground to swallow him whole, he stared at the bed silently. He wasn't in the mood for talking, especially when it was about him.

Clark took an empty chair besides the bed, and sat down. He didn't say anything to Dick, and a silence was lifted upon them. He had never minded the silence, over his years at Wayne Manor he had grown used to it. When Bruce wasn't too busy, and ate dinner with Dick, they usually ate in silence. And when they were on patrol in Gotham, they were silent. However, those times had been nice. The silence was comfortable, unlike this. This silence just screamed in his face taunting him- why couldn't Clark just say something? This was killing him!

"Uh, hey, Dick," he started awkwardly. Dick closed his eyes for a few seconds longer than necessary, and mentally slapped Clark in the face. That was the best he could do? After four years, he comes in here ready to tell him he's going to prison, and he can't even say a good 'Hello'?

"You can just say it," Dick said to the older man, whispering. His words were forced and rough, and it hurt his entire body to speak.

"Say what? That you're not allowed to be a hero anymore? You're going to prison?" Clark sighed, and looked in his lap. "Look, Dick, we both you've already figured out what's going to happen to you." After waiting for a response, and getting none, Clark continued on. "I'm sorry, I really am. This whole thing is just a giant mess. We're going to tell the police it was all self defense, what you did, and you'll be of the hook."

Dick scowled, darting lasers into the sheets, and said, "I don't want that."

Clark, looked up. "What? Why?"

"I don't think it's fair. If I were anyone else, I'd be punished like a normal criminal," he retorted, and refused to make eye contact.

"You are being treated normally. We're going to do what we can for anyone else in your position. This isn't a light case, and you _will_ be punished, but we're trying to help you, Dick. We're doing the best we can here."

"Help me?" Dick laughed drying. "If you want to help, at least treat me like every other criminal you've locked up."

"Stop calling yourself that. You aren't a criminal, at all." Clark rushed out. "You shouldn't think things like that. If you want to be punished, you will be. Know that- we need to punish you, obviously. But we care for you, and we just want to ease the consequences a bit."

Dick made a noise from the back of his throat, and was quick to reply. "See? There you go. You treat me like I'm something special, like I didn't mean to do what I did. Well Clark, news flash! In case you didn't notice, I'm well aware that ten people are dead- I know what I did! So stop trying to ignore it." Clark opened his mouth to retort, but Dick didn't wait for his comment. "Just tell me what you're going to do, already, and quit stalling."

After a few deep breaths, and a quick silence, Clark reclaimed himself and answered, "Fine," he started with a dejected sigh. "I guess I'll just skip to it, if that's what you want." Dick nodded. "Now, you should be off the hook from prison, we're claiming self defense. "But because you took the lives of innocent civilians, you'll be stripped of your title as a hero, and you aren't allowed to patrol anymore." Dick sneered. That was all they were going to do? That was it? Take away the mask? Please, they already had.

"You already took my title," Dick interrupted.

"What?" Clark, confused, and stared at Dick. Upon feeling his gaze, Dick looked up, and starred back, emotionless.

"You gave Jason my title. He's Robin now," he stated coldly, glaring. He had asked Dinah earlier, and it had taken a while, but she told him. Clark shifted in his seat, uneasy. He was hiding something. Something was wrong. Something had happened. And, quite obviously, it had happened to Jason. Now, it was Dick's turn to be confused. His glare softened slightly, and he studied Clark. "What?" His tone was harsh, but inside, he was freaking out. Please, not Jason. Not Jason.

"Dick, you need to focus on your current situation." Clark was trying to change the subject- something had happened. Dick looked away, suddenly self conscious, and stared at the foot of the bed again. It took a few moments before he answered, words clipped and forced out,

"What happened to Jason?" Please be okay, Jay. Please be okay.

"Dick, please," Clark pleaded, and Dick's eyes widened. Jason was dead. No- no, not that. Please not that. Oh, please no. Please, not that.

"Clark, tell me," his voice was rushed, and Dick was sure Clark noticed his increased heart rate.

"Dick, forget that. You need to focus on what happens."

"No! No, I won't! I don't give a crap about what happens- just tell me where Jason is!"

"Please, just calm down," Clark was getting worried. "Nothing happened to Jason. He's fine, Bruce is fine, Alfred is fine, everyone is fine. Please, just concentrate on this."

"No," he spat out.

"Dick,"

Dick cut him off, "No, Clark. Stop it; stop lying. I know you're lying. Something happened, maybe not to Jason, but to someone. So tell me what."

Clark stood abruptly at his comment. "It isn't my place to say," he said, distressed. He looked to the other side of room opposite of Dick, before turning away from the scene altogether.

"Clark," Dick's voice rose and he grimaced in pain. "Clark, don't you dare what out those doors. Don't you goddamn dare."

Clark stopped, and looked at the floor beside him, but didn't turn around. For a moment, he was still, but then he continued walking. "I'm sorry, Dick. I really am."

Then, Dick was left in the silence again.

It was a very uncomfortable silence.

He hated it.

* * *

><p>Wally was pissed. Not at Roy- at himself.<p>

He shouldn't have left. Roy was probably getting wasted again.

The second he exited that house he should've pivoted and walked right back inside. He should've march up to the archer and said 'sorry,' or do _somthing_ other than he did. He shouldn't have left.

But he did.

Artemis had been mad at him at first, when he told her what happened. Well, she had been mad at both of them, but the fact that she was mad at him exclusively made Wally want to punch himself in the face.

After he left Roy's, Wally had gone to a local Central City diner before heading home. It was only a few blocks from his apartment, and Artemis and him got coffee there most mornings on their way to Central City University, which also happened to be a few blocks away. When the bell rang as Wally opened the door, Glenn (the waitress) looked up an smiled.

"How many coffees will be today, Sugar?" Glenn had asked. She had grown quite close to the two over the past few years, and was used to Wally's eating habits.

"Uh, just one, thanks," honestly, Wally wasn't that hungry at the moment. He had stuck around for a while before heading off, which, by then, it was maybe two in the afternoon.

Wally and Artemis ate lunch in silence, for a while, pushing around their food with their forks.

"Maybe we should go visit Roy later," Artemis said, suddenly.

"Artemis, he made it clear doesn't want to be around us." She frowned.

"No, he was mad at you. And I'm sure he got over it. He was drunk, you were venting, and you screwed up." Artemis took bite of her spaghetti, but didn't really pay attention. "With Jade being away with Lian, Roy's lonely. His wife and daughter left when he needed them. You've know him longer than I have, so you should know better than me how much he lets himself go." thoughts of seeing Roy high on his apartment ground with a needle in his arm briefly flashed through Wally's mind, and a quick shudder went down his spine. those days, right after the incident, those were the worst. Roy had to go to freaking rehab. And it sucked. Wally started to say something, and Artemis cut him off. "You and him and Dick used to be best friends. Now, you cant even be in the same room. Wally, you're a twenty year old adult, fully capable of admitting that you messed up, and that you need to accept your mistake and go help Roy."

Wally sighed. "Artemis- Roy's fine, I'm sure." Artemis looked at him, astonished.

"Could you be anymore blind? Ever since Dick d- ever since _he_ died, you've been so angry. And you take it out on everyone- me, Roy, Barry, Iris, your parents, _everyone_. It's been months since you've seen your mom and dad, and it's been forever since you've been able to hold a full conversation with Roy and Barry without storming out! This is ridiculous, Wally! You lost everyone else you love, and if this continues on any longer, you're going to lose me too," her voice was loud, but just as dramatic as she started yelling, she let out a defeated sigh. Artemis put her face in her hands, elbows on the table. She sighed again loudly, and Wally closed his eyes, pursing his lips- she was right. Everything was just crazy, all of it. And as much as it was effecting everyone around him, it was hurting him inside too. They sat there for a few minutes, not speaking.

"Babe, I'm sorry," Wally said finally. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand, and rested it on her bicep.

"I know, Wally. I know." The blonde sighed, running a hand through her hair, before letting it fall in front of her face. "This whole thing is just so messed up. Everything is just screwed up, and damn it, I hate it. I hate it so freaking much; why can't we just forget it all? Why can't we just stop _hurting_?" she said the last word breathlessly. Then, she laughed like she would've normally laughed at a joke, except without an ounce of humor in her eyes. "I almost forgot, about today, you know. That it's his birthday. He would've been eighteen today," she whispered. Her voice dropped low, and Wally strained his ears to listen. "He would've been eighteen, and it still feels like just yesterday he was a thirteen year old replacing my shampoo with pink hair dye." Wally furrowed his brow, seeing a few tears streaming down her half shielded face. "If he were here none of this would've happened. None of it," she added, looking up and using her thumb to wipe her red cheeks.

Wally didn't say anything in response, but Artemis knew what he was thinking. He was beating himself up trying to find a way to blame himself.

So, she did what she always did. Artemis stood up, forgetting the untouched food, and she went over and hugged him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. He buried his head into the nook of her shoulder, but besides that, he was unresponsive to her touch. "I just- I miss him too, Artemis... I miss him so much... and _it_ _hurts_." She rubbed small circles on his back, crying silently.

"I know Wally. I know."

They stayed like that for a few minutes, grasping onto each other in their small kitchen.

Of course, Wally's phone had to ring and ruin the moment. He almost ignored it, before seeing that it was from Batman, and picked it up. He usually didn't call, scratch that- he _never_ called. Quickly, he sniffed, trying to make himself sound like he hadn't been crying for the past few minutes.

"It's Bats," he mouthed to his fiancé. "Hello?"

He listened for a few minutes, Artemis still hugging him, looking up with a concerned face.

Then, out of the blue, Wally's phone slipped through his fingers and fell on the tile, the black device shattering on impact. In any other situation, he would've laughed, considering it was, like, the fourth phone he broke that year- with it being as thin as paper and all. Of course, though, Wally didn't notice his now demolished phone.

Wordlessly, he let Artemis go, and picked his jacket up off the chair.

"Wally, what's wrong?" He looked at her, not fully registering what was happening, and pulled on his jacket. He walked over and placed his plate in the sink, and slowly slid across the counter to the floor, where he stared blankly at the wall. Artemis crouched beside him, "What, Wally? Answer me." Then, as if what had just happened wasn't strange enough, he began tapping his fingers on the floor, like the brown tile was a piano. He tapped his fingers in a rhythm, one by one, humming an unfamiliar tune to himself. Artemis didn't recognize it, but it sounded like it was something classical. "Wally, babe you're scaring me." He didn't reply, and he didn't stop. She shook his shoulder, furrowing her brow. "Wally. Wally, stop." He turned his head, looking at her, and began to laugh. Not a dry, sorrow filled laugh, but an actual laugh- and it reached up to his eyes, where he stared blankly at her.

"He's back, 'Mis. He's back."

She looked at him, confused. "Who?"

"Him. Dick. He's back."

Then, she didn't know why, but she began laughing too. Maybe it was the craziness of the situation, or maybe she had been drugged, but everything just felt so unreal that she had to laugh. So, she and Wally sat there, on the tile of their kitchen floor, and laughed through the pain that had built up inside them for the past four years, and through the laughs were sobs.

Why wally laughed and cried away the pain, his mind flashed several different memories shocking him.

* * *

><p>"NO!"<p>

"Wally, calm down!"

"No! No, you promised! You promised, Barry! You promised!"

"Wally, please,"

"No! No, shut up! Just shut up! _I hate you_! I hate you so much! I hate you; I hate you! You lied! You promised me you would find him, you _promised_!"

"It's been a year an a half, we can't keep looking forev-"

"But you can! You have to! You have to, because he's alive! He's alive and you're abandoning him, and now he's going to die and it's all your fault! I hate you! He's still out there, but you don't care enough to look for him! You don't care that he's still out there, probably thinking you gave up on him, and you did. You gave up! You're a coward, Barry! A coward!"

"I'm sorry, Wally."

"No, shut up! _I hate you_."

* * *

><p>"When are you going to tie the knot with Artemis?"<p>

"I don't know, I always wanted Dick to be my best man, but-"

"Yeah, I get it."

"When he get's back, then I'll do it. But not until then, he deserves to be there as much as anyone else."

"_If_ he gets back, Wally. It's been two years."

"Yeah Roy, I know. But he's still out there. He's got to be."

* * *

><p>"Any news?"<p>

"None."

"Alright, that's enough for tonight, team, bring it back to the Mountain; it's getting late."

"We can't stop searching, guys! We can't just stop now."

"Don't worry, Wally; we'll try again tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay."

* * *

><p>"I thought we were going out to search for Dick tonight?"<p>

"Sorry, but I'm busy. Maybe next week?"

"Same here, I've got a date."

"Yeah, we can all go out some other time, sorry."

"Yeah, okay guys. Next week."

* * *

><p>"You said we would go out searching- but it's been a month."<p>

"Wally, maybe it's time to stop."

"Yeah, I mean, it's been over two years, and no one knows anything."

"What, do you guys even hear yourselves?"

"I'm sorry, but I think it's time to move on."

"Are you serious right now?!"

"Wally, _he's not coming back_."

* * *

><p>"Hey, Wally?"<p>

"Yeah, Artemis?"

"Do you still think Dick is out there? Do you think he's still alive, waiting?"

"... No."

* * *

><p>"So you finally proposed?"<p>

"Yeah, I can't believe it, Barry. I'm getting married!"

"Yeah, Artemis is a lucky girl. Have you thought about a best man?"

"Yeah; I already talked to Roy, and he said yes."

"What about Dick?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore, please; let's just forget it."

"... Alright, Wally."

* * *

><p>"Hey Wally?"<p>

"Hmm?"

"I just- I was wondering, I know this is a tough subject, but you never visited Dick's grave."

"Yeah, I know. Why?"

"Well, I just thought, how come?"

"I refused to believe he's dead."

"Then, why'd you go yesterday?"

"Artemis, everyone has to move on at some point. Besides, there's no point in believing in things that don't exist."

* * *

><p>"It's Bats," he mouthed to his fiancé. "Hello?"<p>

"Wally, it's... Dick. He's back. I know this is hard to believe, but he is. He isn't the same person, though, so I'm going to warn you. He's different. He's not the Dick you remember, but he's alive. He is in the watchtower and he just underwent surgery for his wounds." He continued talking, but Wally didn't hear it. Instead, he let his phone slip through his fingers.

* * *

><p>Wally didn't go visit Dick after that.<p>

Artemis went, so did Roy, but Wally stayed home, sitting on the kitchen floor, his laughs eventually turning into full blown sobs.

Maybe Dick was back, but that didn't mean anything was okay. No, nothing was okay. How could he look at Dick, when he had given up on him, how could he talk to Dick like they were still best friends. No, nothing was okay. How could he pretend like the last four years didn't exist, when they did? No, nothing would be okay. Not anymore.

Not anymore- nothing was okay anymore. His entire existence had shattered, and fell to the bottom of the ocean. It could never be fixed. Nothing would be the same between him and Dick, and nothing would ever be the same between them, no matter how hard he tried.

So Wally stayed there, on the floor, sobbing until he had no tears to shed. And when he was finished crying, face as red as his hair, and head burning with a headache, he remembered something.

And quietly, alone in the dark, he whispered what he had always said on Dick's birthday. The comment was always meant as a joke. He would say it in a British accent and laugh at how stupid it sounded, but at that moment, as he said it, he felt like it was all he could do to keep from giving up. Those words though seemingly ridiculous, gave him an inch of hope, that things would be okay. Because part of him still wished his best friend was there, beside him, and that things would be okay.

"Best wishes, Mr. Grayson."

Of course, they were just words.

.

.

.

Fin.

* * *

><p><strong>So I hadn't meant to continue, but oh well. I did. <strong>

**I hoped you liked it, and thanks for reading! It always means a lot.**


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